


I will take the sun in my mouth

by blackkat



Series: luminous beings are we [7]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Aggressive Pining, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dragons, First Meetings, Humor, M/M, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27782299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Thank you for the help,” Feemor says, and reaches up as he ducks down, scraping a droid hand that’s still clinging off the downward curve of one horn. Neatly, he sweeps the remains of the droids away with his tail, dumping them into the river as well, and then turns to face the clone.Slowly, warily, the ARC trooper lowers his blaster, suspicion still sharp but alarm entirely faded. “I think that should be my line,” he says. “What the hell are you?”
Relationships: Alpha-17/Feemor (Star Wars)
Series: luminous beings are we [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838944
Comments: 32
Kudos: 701
Collections: Alpha17





	I will take the sun in my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> ~~The title was an accident but I am not sorry for it.~~

The sunlight feels amazing.

Feemor likely _shouldn’t_ be indulging—he has a round dozen things he should be doing, including a report to write and a comm to the Council he needs to make for another assignment. The mission finished early, though, and Feemor is sore all over, and this planet is closer to its star than most he gets to be on. The pure heat of it on the rolling, multicolored hills makes Feemor want to melt right into the dirt, and sneaking out to put his scales on for a few hours feels like the greatest possible indulgence.

There's nothing _vital_ , he tells himself, even as he spreads his wings out, letting the golden feathers catch a little more light. Nothing that can't wait a few hours while he rests and heals. It’s warm, and bright, and the hills here are stripped with a thousand bands of color rising from the earth, the surface of them smooth and a little sandy, perfect for sunbathing. They're also _large_ hills, and Feemor appreciates not having to contort himself around four or five smaller ones the way he normally does.

With a pleased sigh, Feemor resettles his head, resting his chin on a boulder and closing his eyes, and wonders how Obi-Wan is doing. He has that padawan who’s about to be Knighted and he _still_ hasn’t introduced him to Feemor, which is disappointing. Then again, Feemor has an odd presence in the Force, something that makes him easily forgettable as soon as someone isn't thinking directly about him, so it’s likely understandable. He was always a good bit older than Obi-Wan, too, and probably wouldn’t be on his mind much.

He’ll just have to reintroduce himself, Feemor decides, not overly bothered by it. Obi-Wan could likely use some support, and Feemor wants to see him. He should ask the Council to assign him to somewhere near Obi-Wan’s division, just in case there’s an assignment available. It _feels_ like the right choice, a certainty in the Force that whispers that’s where he needs to be, and Feemor makes a pleased sound, stretching lightly and coiling his tail around a sun-warmed rock. Ruffles his feathers again, then settles with a deep purr of contentment. There's—

Close by, something explodes.

Feemor opens one eye, then the other, and lifts his head. That sounded like a thermal detonator going off, and this planet is all but deserted now that Feemor routed the Separatists who were trying to build a base here. He made _sure_ all the droids were destroyed and the slaves they were forcing to do their building were freed and off the planet before he relaxed, and if he _missed_ something—

Someone shouts, furious, spiking in alarm, and Feemor surges to his feet without a second’s hesitation, tail pulling the boulder along with him until he can grab it in both front paws. His wings flare, the color of molten gold in the sunlight, and he surges up, a strong downbeat sending him right into the air. The hills drop away, and Feemor casts his senses out, catches the flare of another explosion, and arrows straight for it.

Where three hills meet, there's a bright wash of silvery-white that marks one of the planet’s gallium rivers, the metal liquid in the heat, and just beyond it Feemor catches sight of black shapes swarming across the bright earth, a flash of dull white backed up against the bank. More alarm rising, twisted through with desperation and a razor sharp defiance, and Feemor folds his wings, feathers perfectly silent, and arrows straight for them as the host of assassin droids close in.

It’s a clone on the bank of the river, a clone in ARC armor with a body slung over one shoulder, a second body under one arm. Bodies in _robes_ , and Feemor takes one look at the trooper, saving two Jedi even though he likely could have escaped if he left them behind, and twists.

A lack of the correct muscles makes almost impossible for a dragon to throw, even though Feemor at least has longer legs than some Jedi, but at this speed and from this height it’s simple enough to just toss the boulder lightly, right at the tightest knot of droids, and give it a bit of extra momentum with a Force-push. Feemor doesn’t wait to watch it hit; he turns over in the air, flares his wings for one brief half-second to spend momentum, and then drops. He hits the ground hard enough to shake it, right in between the clone and the oncoming droids, and _roars_.

The droids don’t hesitate, of course. They never do.

Like a big cat, Feemor pounces, grabbing the first one in his claws and tearing it apart, then plowing into three more. A sweep of his wings and the claws on the ends of them catches another handful, and he snaps another between his teeth, hears a blaster fire, and jerks his wings up out of the way to let it scatter across his scales. Getting shot in the wing _hurts_ , and he’d rather not lose any more feathers today than he already has.

From behind him there’s a shout of warning, even as Feemor feels the sharp jerk at some of the sleek feathers that edge the scales along his legs. More assassin droids swarm up his legs, grab the feathers that lie like scales along his neck, and Feemor snarls. He twists around, long, sharp horns knocking some of them off, but the others scatter to avoid the blow, keep climbing. Shaking himself hard, Feemor seizes a droid that’s slipping off, then flings it into the metal of the river. Feels them catch his horns and _growls_.

A blue blaster bolt slams into a droid as it grabs the feathers on his neck, knocks it clear off with a hole burned through it. It’s a perfect shot, with impeccable aim, and a moment later another comes, another. With that much breathing room, Feemor has time to concentrate, to breathe in as he turns his head over his back—

He breathes out, and a whirl of blue plasma sheets from his jaws, curls over his scales. The assassin droids still clinging to him lose their grip, melting, liquifying as they slide down, and Feemor shakes them off, snapping his jaws shut. His scales steam in the hot air, and he flares his wings out, checking for damage, and then carefully refolds them.

“Thank you for the help,” he says, and reaches up as he ducks down, scraping a droid hand that’s still clinging off the downward curve of one horn. Neatly, he sweeps the remains of the droids away with his tail, dumping them into the river as well, and then turns to face the clone.

Slowly, warily, the ARC trooper lowers his blaster, suspicion still sharp but alarm entirely faded. “I think that should be my line,” he says. “What the hell are you?”

Feemor blinks, a little startled by the question when the trooper has two Jedi with him, but…some Jedi try to save their scales for the worst possible situations and don’t indulge as often as Feemor. The energy drain afterwards hits everyone differently, and Feemor can understand not liking it.

“Are there any more of those droids?” he asks, because once he changes he’s not going to be changing back for at least another day, or at least not until he has a nap and a whole pile of protein rations.

The ARC shakes his head, lowing his blaster. “Was only one ship’s worth,” he says. “We crashed about a day’s travel back that way, but they crashed too.”

The edge of vicious satisfaction in his voice says that he most certainly had a hand in that crash.

With a quiet chuckle, Feemor takes a step back, then closes his eyes. Putting on scales and taking them off is as simple as meditation, an automatic thing after so many years, and he slides from one form to the other like letting go of a breath. There's no shock of transition, no uncertainty; both forms are _him_ , just as surely as both of his hands are his, and Feemor rises easily to his feet. He resettles his robes, checks that his lightsaber is still clipped to his belt, and then offers the trooper a smile. He’s tired, but—it’s the kind of exhaustion that comes after a long workout, and not entirely objectionable.

“Jedi Master Feemor,” he says, and bows politely. “Sorry to startle you, but I heard the explosion and assumed you could use some help.”

The ARC is staring, full of blank surprise. After a long, long moment, he says suspiciously, “That still doesn’t answer the _what_ part of my question.”

“I'm a Jedi,” Feemor says, and when he feels the spike of irritation edged with a complete willingness to do violence, he quickly raises his hands. “We have two forms, that’s all it is. All Force-sensitives can turn into dragons. Some of the Jedi scholars think it has to do with the way the Force shapes itself around us, and a tradition of dragons able to use the Force long before any other species could.”

“Fascinating,” the ARC says flatly. He turns, jabbing a finger at the pile of robes and limbs dumped on the bank, and demands, “You mean I was carting those two idiots around for a full _day_ when they could have grown wings?”

“Well, not all Jedi have wings,” Feemor says diplomatically. When the ARC gives him a disbelieving look, he grimaces a little, and offers, “Some Jedi don’t change often once they're out of the crèche. It makes us tired.”

“ _You_ seem bright and chipper,” the trooper says sourly. “Please tell me you have a ship, or at least a working comm.”

“Of course,” Feemor says, not quite soothing, and gives him a smile. “Can I help with them? You must be tired.”

For a moment he thinks the trooper is going to argue, but then, with a harsh breath, the man nods. “Sure,” he says, and then, like it actually hurts to get out, “Thanks.”

Prickly like Xanatos, Feemor thinks, smiling to himself. He doesn’t _say_ that, of course, just approaches as the trooper hauls his Jedi out of their unconscious tangle, and—

“Oh,” Feemor says, startled, and goes down on one knee next to Obi-Wan, laying a hand over his forehead to check his mind. “I didn’t realize you were with Obi-Wan.”

The ARC’s eyes are on him, heavy, but all he does is grunt. “He’s my general. You know him?”

Feemor smiles a little, remembering his first sight of a small boy with a shock of copper hair trailing after Qui-Gon. “Of course. He’s my brother padawan. We had the same Master.”

The flicker of surprise the ARC feels doesn’t show anywhere in his body language. “A useless one? He got himself knocked out three minutes after Durge showed up.”

With a rueful sound, Feemor scoops Obi-Wan up in his arms and rises, watching as the ARC gets Obi-Wan’s padawan over his shoulder with rather less care. “Qui-Gon was a very talented Jedi,” he says, though he saw enough of Qui-Gon’s problems with Obi-Wan and Xanatos to know that his old Master was far from perfect. “Durge is after you?”

The ARC snorts. “Captured us and left us to die. I got us out.”

Chased by assassin droids the whole way, it sounds like. “That’s impressive,” Feemor says with a smile, and the ARC scoffs and looks away.

“Just my job. Not that they make it easy.”

Feemor chuckles. “I can imagine they don’t,” he says. “Obi-Wan’s always gotten into more trouble than about four other Jedi combined.” He starts up the river, wary of where the bank is soft, and says, “My ship is over the next hill. Is there something in particular I can call you?”

For a long moment, the trooper doesn’t answer, even though he’s following. Then, a with faint huff, he says, “Alpha.”

From the first batch of clones, then, Feemor thinks, a little surprised. “Alpha,” he repeats. “It’s nice to meet you. I was about to head back to Coruscant anyway, if that’s a good destination.”

“It’s fine.” Alpha sounds distracted, even if his eyes are still a weight on Feemor's back, but Feemor can't sense any danger in the immediate area, so he leaves it be. It’s only a short march back to the ship, anyway, and when they finally start down the painted hill towards it, Feemor pulls up his comm and punches in the remote codes, getting the ramp down and the system checks started. Alpha seems like the impatient type, so it’s better to get things moving.

“They should both fit in the berth,” Feemor says over his shoulder, heading up the ramp and pressing an elbow to the door’s control panel. It slides open, and he carefully lays Obi-Wan out on his own bunk, then checks his head again. It feels like there's some kind of sedative in his system, but it’s fading, of slowly. When Alpha tosses Obi-Wan’s padawan into the other bunk like a sack of tubers, Feemor goes to check him as well, and is relieved to find it’s the same thing. He’d been thinking about brain damage and trauma, especially if Durge was involved, but drugs can be dealt with.

“Durge got them both with a dart gun,” Alpha says, entirely unimpressed, and reaches up, pulling his helmet off. He’s bigger than any clone Feemor has met before, like the Kaminoans took Jango Fett and scaled him up by a factor of three, and his face is bruised but handsome enough to make Feemor look away quickly, a nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach. “They were out like lights.”

“It’s wearing off, I think,” Feemor reassures him, and busies himself finding blankets. “They should come around in the next day or so.” He straightens, turns—

A hand catches his arm, hauls him close, and Feemor loses his breath as he’s pulled right up against Alpha's chest, until they're practically nose to nose. Alpha is _staring_ , dark eyes narrowed, and his grip is tight in a way that makes Feemor's stomach knot, hot and low.

“You're gold,” he says. “As a dragon.”

Feemor blinks, because Stass usually calls him _obnoxiously_ gold, and he’d thought it was obvious. “Yes?”

“All except here,” Alpha says, eyes narrowed, and drags a fingertip over the bridge of Feemor's nose, across the tops of his cheeks. “I thought it was metal from the river. Silver droplets. But you have _freckles_.”

He sounds like he’s deeply offended by this, and Feemor blinks at him, helpless as to how he should respond.

“I…do,” he says finally, not quite a question, and Alpha makes a sound of _immense_ indignation and pulls away, stalking towards the front of the ship and all but throwing himself into the pilot’s chair.

Feemor stares after him in bewilderment for a long moment, then puts a hand up, furtively touching the spot where Alpha's fingers just were. It feels _hot_ , like Alpha's touch left a tangible imprint against his skin.

Like sunshine, Feemor thinks, and smiles.


End file.
